Batman: Duel
by warriorfist
Summary: Batman is Gotham's Dark Knight. A boy eternally scarred, the man wages war against the forces of chaos and darkness, in a never ending war that will cost him everything that he holds dear.
1. Beautiful Lies

_1993_

Gotham. It's the most beautiful city in America. It's also one of the worst cities to live in, worldwide.

Crime rates have been stuck at 2.5% for the last decade. Property values were in perpetual decline. Mayors, governors and presidents have tried to change Gotham for the better. Most of them have failed. Thomas Wayne was determined to break that mold.

"You have Commissioner Loeb on line two, Mr. Wayne," Vaughn said, peeking through the door.

"Transfer him," Thomas said, putting down his glass of bourbon. He picked up the phone's receiver.

"Didn't you take the day off, Wayne?"

"Yeah, I did. From the hospital," Thomas replied. His other hand was busy operating his computer, searching its directories for Wayne Corp's annual reports. "It's 6 PM. We close at 8. Tell me, Jeff. How can I help you?"

"I heard from a bird that you are expecting new inmates at Arkham," Loeb said, slurring.

"Perhaps. Dr. Strange is in charge of new intakes. What's it to you, Jeff?"

"Well, that bird also told me that some of these inmates are connected to this recent spate of murders. The Number killings. You have heard of them, right?"

"Everyone in Gotham has heard of it."

Thomas wasn't exaggerating. The victims were disfigured and carefully staged. Roman numerals were placed in every crime scene, either around the victims or on them. Sometimes, cryptic notes were also found on their bodies.

As bad as Gotham already was, things were becoming even worse.

"One of them, Victor Zsazz, is probably the killer, Wayne. We need you to make a special exception for him."

"How so?"

"Make him more pliable."

Thomas felt a chill run down his spine. He knew what pliable meant.

"You are asking me to break the Hippocratic Oath, Jeff."

"He's scum, Wayne. He's smarter than you, too. You don't have to go all the way. Just crack his shell. Send him back to us. We will do the rest."

Thomas reflected on the situation, taking another sip of bourbon. The Number Killer had claimed twenty-five lives so far. Would it be truly unethical if Thomas did what Loeb was asking of him?

"I can't promise you anything, Jeff. Let's put him under observation first. I will let you know if he does anything unusual."

Loeb laughed. "See, was that so hard? I knew you would be reasonable."

"We all need reason, Jeff. Some more than others. Good night."

Thomas hung up, returning his focus to the computer screen. He started the combersome process of data entry, inputting the values from the balance sheets and profit and loss statements of the last five years.

This is the kind of work people would normally get an intern to do. But Thomas didn't trust anyone else to get this right.

After ten painstaking minutes, Thomas was done with data entry. He ran the three sheets through some basic analysis. The results confirmed what he had suspected. There was some money missing.

Not just some money. A lot of it. Three million dollars, at least.

Thomas sighed. A sundae of relief and apathy washed over his dulled mind. This wasn't the first time he caught a whiff of embezzling in Wayne Corp. For a company that had a market cap north of fifty billion dollars, three million was chump change, at best. Nevertheless, it was a serious crime, one that required a formal inquiry before long.

That would have to wait for another day. Thomas had another appointment, and he wasn't one to be late.

* * *

Martha Wayne left Bruce's room, eyes glazed, Michael Crichton novel tucked under her arm. The years had been kind to her, but Martha often paid no heed to such kindness.

Alfred frowned.

It was characteristic of Alfred to frown. Nowadays, however, Alfred frowned far often than he would have liked to frown.

"Everything well, madam?"

Martha turned her gaze towards Alfred. She looked exhausted on an ontological level.

"He isn't taking this well, Alfred. Not as well as he could be. He is falling behind on his homework."

"I think we can take care of the homework for now, madam. He will recover, given due time. He's still a little boy. He has time."

Martha smiled wanly. "He's eleven, Alfred. That's as old as eighteen in Gotham years. I will be in my study."

Alfred nodded. "I will see to it that master Bruce is prepared by eight thirty."

Martha retired to her study. She spent the next thirty minutes reading the novel. She took some notes, scribbling down ideas for her own short stories and manuscripts. She liked the respite fiction provided from the real world. In particular, she liked how things were resolved, one way or other. Reality provided her no such luxury.

It was time, soon enough, for Martha to get ready as well. She went to her walk-in cabinet, perusing the dresses on display. She selected four, before eliminating all of them.

They were too gaudy. Too upscale. It screamed bourgeois. It screamed Wayne. Instead, she chose a simple, understated grey dress, and picked a tan, muted overcoat, with high-heeled brown sandals.

It was when she finished doing her hair, perfecting her curls, that it occurred to Martha how rote her makeup rituals had become in the last few years. She found more joy and passion in cutting through and suturing the skull and folds of brain matter. She repeated brush stroke after brush stroke with practiced ease, caring only for what she saw in the mirror, and not what she felt. She was a mortician, beautifying her own cadaver self, animating her numb flesh with foundation, her listless lips with lipstick and lipgloss and her sparkless eyes with contoured shadows.

"That's a strange look," Thomas noted, entering the room. He was dressed in formals: navy blue blazer, black shirt and black brogues. "Ethereal. Like the sirens of old."

Martha glanced at Thomas, smirked and returned to her task. "Flatterer. You are overdressed, Thomas."

"Hmm. I would rather say that you are under-dressed, dear," Thomas remarked, ambling closer to Martha's dressing table as he took off his blazer. He stood behind Martha, smiled and grasped her bare shoulders. "It's a special screening, after all."

"That, it may be. But who are we dressing up for, Thomas? It's only the Thompkins, Dents and Tommy Elliot. We will be among friends."

Thomas nodded, eyes wandering from Martha's shoulder, to neck, and elsewhere. He became pensive, even as he craned down and nuzzled against the back of her perfumed neck. Martha slackened appreciatively. "We are Waynes, Martha. And it's Gotham. There are always eyes watching us."

"Hmm," Martha's voice trailed off. She shook her shoulders free, leaning towards the mirror.

"Don't ditch the pearls. They have always looked good on you."

Martha felt indifferent about the pearls. All the same, she opened her jewelry drawer, taking the pearl necklace out of its box. She draped it around her throat, noting the dim white glow.

"You should wear the grey jacket, Thomas. The one that Ron got you."

Thomas' expression soured. He hadn't worn that in five years. Not since the day he had held Phillip in his arms, flesh still fragile and tender, and checked for a non-existent pulse.

"I wonder if Alfred mothballed it," Thomas offered. He sat on the edge of the bed, flexing his shoulder blades. "It's been a while since I wore it."

Done with her makeup, Martha shot a sideways glance at him, smiling crookedly. "I will be. The mighty Thomas Wayne, brought low by a sixty buck jacket."

"That bad, huh?"

"Mmhmm. It's time we moved on. I carried him for eight months, Thomas. And they didn't even let me hold him. You didn't let me hold him."

Thomas looked hurt. "It was better that way."

"And I was his mother. But, let it be. We have Bruce, and he's going through his own troubles. That fight with Cobblepot at school. That night in the cave," Martha put on her sandals, walking over to Thomas' closet. She grabbed the grey jacket, took it off the hanger and brought it to Thomas. "If we don't keep up, we might lose this son, too. Or at least, he might lose his nerves."

"Bruce is stronger than that," Thomas insisted, taking the jacket and trying it on. He felt some initial unease, which disappeared after a few seconds. "Smarter, too. He walked out of the cave on his own."

"No one's doubting his smarts," Martha countered, with firmness tempered by a touch of tenderness. "But he is letting it get to him. More than he cares to admit."

Martha checked her purse. Her small Swiss-army knife was still there, as was her dog-eared, Barnes and Noble bookmark.

"Alright, Martha. I will talk to him. Once the movie's done," Thomas said, putting on his shoes. "You know, it's funny. I just realized, we spent the whole time without discussing work."

Martha chucked. "Our work is horrible. You try to fix people and then fix Gotham. I try to fix people's brains. Lost causes that can wait until tomorrow."

Thomas smiled as he headed out of the room, Martha following him. "We should have invited the Queens, too. Moira would have loved your sense of humor."

"I am sure she would have," Martha paused to look at her pearls. "I am glad you remembered the pearls."

"Me too. I have a good feeling about tonight."

* * *

James Gordon turned off his lighter, taking a long puff from his cigarette. It didn't hit as hard as it used to. He hated this Lights shit. He was a Red guy all the way, but Barbara would have none of it. It was either this, or the nicotine patch.

Tommy looked at Gordon in wonder. He had seen his dad smoke cigarettes before, and cigars, too.

"What are you looking at?" Gordon asked.

"Oh, nothing," Tommy deflected. "Are those good?"

"No, they are not. There are worse things to kill yourself with," Gordon inhaled. "Sorry. Poor choice of words."

"It's okay."

"Hmm. Aren't you supposed to be with the other kid? Helping him order food?"

"Yeah. We did that already. We were waiting on you, actually."

"Alright," Gordon dropped the cigarette and doused it with his foot. "Let's go inside."

As Gordon walked in, he spotted Bruce seated at a corner table. The boy was fiddling with his fries. It suddenly occurred to Gordon that, perhaps, the Waynes were so rich that they boy had never been inside a Mickey Dee's before.

"You have been to one of these before, right?" Gordon asked, taking a seat.

"Maybe? In an airport. I don't remember."

"Hah. You didn't miss out on much."

Bruce smiled hesitantly. "I actually like the fries. The cheese, too."

"Yeah. Most kids do."

Gordon wanted to ask Bruce if he was okay. But he obviously wasn't. He could see the denial in the boy's eyes. What kind of people raise kids in Gotham?

What kind of people live in Gotham?

It had been three years since he got transferred there. He remembered how it felt, then, coming to Gotham by train. He had Barbara flown in by a plane. But he wanted to come by the train because he wanted to get a feel of the people. (And also because it cost a lot less.)

He got a feel of the people alright. And he got a feel of the place too. It felt like hell.

He had skipped enlisting and going to Iraq for this. Now it was either this, or pumping gas. And being a cop in hell was still better than that.

He studied the boy intently. The sheer terror Gordon had seen, when he had arrived on the scene, was now submerged beneath an indifferent numbness. But the terror- and then the grief- were sure to come, sooner or later.

"You know, the last thing he said to me," Bruce said, finishing his burger. "is that he wanted to have a talk."

"Yeah? What do you think he wanted to talk about?"

"I am not sure. It's...it's probably about the bats."

"Yeah? What happened?"

"I got lost in the underground caves, beneath our home. For eight hours. I got attacked by bats while I was there."

"That must have been rough."

"Bruce kicked their ass, though!" Tommy chimed in. "He bashed one of those bats' head in!"

"I wish I hadn't done that. They were screaming a lot. I think they were scared."

"They probably were. That's their home, I guess, those caves. You were the intruder there."

"Yeah. That's a strong thing, isn't it? Fear. I saw it in his eyes too."

"Criminals are a superstitious and cowardly lot, kid."

"They are dumb, too!" Tommy hissed. "He probably didn't even know who you guys are, Bruce. I can't believe he knocked over the Waynes for a wallet and a set of pearls."

"The economy's not what it used to be, kid," Gordon said, chomping down on one of the fries. "Especially for ex-thugs."

"When can I go home, mister?" Bruce asked, staring forlornly at the window.

"As soon as you two are done with your food. We got the guy an hour ago."

Bruce looked surprised. "Really?"

"Yeah," Gordon looked puzzled. "You don't look relieved."

"Am I supposed to?"

"Nah. No one is supposed to do or feel anything, under these conditions," Gordon dabbed his lips with a tissue. "Look, I wish I could tell you it gets easier. But it doesn't. Growing up is tough. Every day is a bad day. Specially in Gotham. And now, you have to deal with that every day."

"Well, Bruce, he is being harsh. You do get free food," Tommy offered helpfully. "I got a free burrito, the morning my dad died. Free toys too, for a while. And I didn't even need them."

"Life is more than toys, Tommy," Bruce muttered dejectedly.

"Losing your parents is hard. You know what I said at my mother's eulogy? 'My mother is dead. I didn't know her that well. She never loved me enough. But she is dead, and everything is worse now.' That's how it works. Everything is worse now."

"Geez. You would be a terrible father, man," Tommy admonished sourly.

"I agree," Gordon laughed softly. "Parenthood is a terrible thing. You should go to a school that teaches you that, along with more real world things."

"Yeah. School. I still have school tomorrow."

"You can take a day off, if you want," Gordon suggested. "Or even a week. But you have to go back there, sooner or later."

"Yeah. I suppose I have to."

They left soon after. The rides home were mostly silent. Tommy fiddled with Gordon's police scanner and car radio, eventually settling on a Prince song. Bruce moved onto the front seat after they dropped Tommy off at Snyder Park.

Gordon stole glances at the boy as he drove to Wayne Manor. Heir to a multi-billion dollar fortune, along with a ton of responsibilities, and totally unprepared for any of it.

Bruce's eyes flickered, every now and then, and his fingers quivered. But it seemed that he refused to break, or at least he refused to break in front of Gordon. Gordon supposed that the boy felt that he needed to be strong, especially in front of strangers.

"You like this stuff?" Gordon asked. "Prince?"

Bruce smirked. "I am twelve. I am not supposed to have an opinion on music."

"But you do, all the same."

"Yes. I like Purple Rain. But I have always liked Bowie better."

"Hmm. Let me see if I can find my jam."

Gordon flipped through the stations, until he found what he was looking for. The psychedelic beats started, followed by the dreamy vocals.

 _Hello! Is there anybody in there? Can anybody hear me? Is anyone home?_

Bruce listened, quietly and intently. He remained silent for the rest of the ride. Gordon felt sleepy and tired, as he drove up the hills to the Wayne Manor entrance.

His bones ached, as did his soul.

"Who's there?" Alfred's voice floated through the intercom.

"It's Lieutenant James Gordon. I am bringing Bruce Wayne home."

"Yes, yes," Alfred said. He sounded distressed and distracted. "I will let you in."

The gate opened, and Gordon drove his cruiser through it. He wondered if the architect of Wayne Manor and its surrounding estates was a tortured artist, too. In addition to being unmistakeably gothic, it was also needlessly drab and labyrinthine.

The car stopped in front of the Manor. Alfred walked out and opened the car door, waiting expectantly for Bruce to step out.

Except that Bruce didn't.

He looked ahead, eyes glassed, and then towards Gordon. And Gordon saw the fear in the eleven year old's eyes, of living alone in a three-story, seven thousand square feet manor.

He saw the fear of being alone in the dark, with nothing there but memories of being similarly alone and helpless in Crime Alley, clutching his mother's pearls and feeling his world pulling away from him.

"Go, kid," Gordon said, lightly patting Bruce's shoulder. "I will come see you some other time."

"That would be good," Alfred remarked, as Bruce climbed out of the car. "Come, master, Bruce. This night is nearly over, and you must try to sleep."

Bruce nodded. He seemed exhausted beyond belief.

Gordon waited until they were indoors before starting his car. He lit up a cigarette as he drove past the Manor gates.

These things were still going to kill him, someday. If they didn't, then the job will, more slowly and painfully.

He couldn't imagine what was going inside Bruce's head. It didn't matter that he was inheriting all the money in the world.

His parents were dead, and everything was worse now.


	2. An Uneasy Truce

2007

Bruce looked evenly at the man in front of him. Was he studying him as well as Bruce was studying him?

Perhaps. It was in Scott King's best interest to observe- and understand- his patient intimately. Here, inside this small space, packed with folders and files, there was hardly any room to breathe.

"Everything going well, Bruce?"

"As well as they can be, under the circumstances. You need to do something about this room, though. Forget me: it's dangerous for your own health, spending eight hours in this place."

"They are looking into it. We will probably move into a new place by the next week."

"That's great to hear," Bruce said. He didn't say that he was hearing that for the last four years, and he didn't think it would happen this time, either. "What do you want me to talk about, Scott?"

"We could start with how you are feeling right now."

"Right. I am feeling..." the word cramped came into his mind. Bruce pushed it aside, because he didn't want to go down that particular rabbit hole. "I am feeling good, I think. Work is going okay. There was an...unexpected development yesterday, but it's under control right now."

"Could you elaborate?"

"I was working late into the night. Research and strategy planning, mostly. Scouting out my competitors. As I was preparing to leave, I noticed I wasn't alone. There was somebody else in the...office."

"Who was this person?"

"I don't know. Not the usual type of person I meet in offices. She's very sharp," Bruce noted, massaging the wound in his left ear. "In more ways than one."

"That looks dangerous. I hope your security came to your aid before something worse happened."

"I didn't really need security yesterday. Like I said, I have it under control. I guess I need to find out who she was, and then see what happens next, if she ever pops up on my radar. I don't know why, but she rubs me wrong."

"Is there anything in particular that makes you uncomfortable?"

"It's the way she moved, and the way she talked. There wasn't...malice in her intent, but she was there for her own reasons. Reasons that aren't exactly Samaritan."

"To be fair, Bruce, you do run one of the largest companies in the world. Corporate espionage is unfortunate, but not entirely unexpected, is it?"

"No, it isn't. I was just caught offguard. It's been a few years since that has happened."

"Is that so? Why do you think you always have to be prepared, Bruce?"

"I have to be," Bruce replied matter-of-factly. "There's no other alternative. I receive three death threats per week. That doesn't really get to me mentally, but I have to stay prepared all the same."

"That's partially correct. But what really interests me, Bruce, is how emotionally guarded you always are. Why do you do that, Bruce?"

Bruce laughed. "I barely have time to entertain emotions, Scott. I work a ninety hour work week."

"So do other billionaires, but they also have families and children to spend time with."

"I am not really planning on settling down anytime soon. I date every now and then, but you know how those have worked out so far."

"Right. You try to find meaning in your work, but as I have told you earlier, work isn't everything. You need some time off, to relax and recuperate. And having other people around to spend that time with, that's more important than you think, too."

"Right. Give me a couple of more years. Maybe I will change my mind."

King nodded, scribbling away in his notepad. "Yes. Maybe you will."

The rest of the session was spent exploring Bruce's food and sleeping habits. Thankfully, King didn't inquire him about his parents this time, which meant he didn't have to lie to the man. He was used to fielding such questions from the press, but to lie to this man, whom Bruce trusted with his life, was a lot more difficult.

After a few more minutes, Bruce walked out, bidding King good day before closing the door. He smiled cordially at everyone else in the lobby, striding out into the street before anybody had a chance to realize who he was. He didn't like to get ambushed by people, especially here of all places.

Bruce grabbed his tablet, checking his appointments for the rest of the day. He was scheduled to meet Harvey Dent later that day. That's nice, he thought to himself, a small smile dawning on his features. There was at least some semblance of normality to his day.

* * *

They were still young, back then.

Harvey had just finished his first year at the District Attorney's office. Bruce had returned to Gotham just two years ago, and his playboy persona was only just coming to the fore. It was hard to keep up the act with Harvey, though. The two men knew each other like the back of our hands.

"Jones is a class act, Bruce," Harvey said. They were sitting at a roadside cafe. "But that Loeb, he's going to be a tough nut to crack."

"Are the rumors about him and the Falcone family true?"

"Of course. Worst kept secret in the law enforcement community. More crooked than my nan's back."

Bruce nodded thoughtfully. His own files on Loeb were extensive. He was the first corrupt cop Bruce wanted to target, once he was done with the mayor and his cronies.

"How's Wayne Corp doing nowadays? I hear your weapons division is doing pretty well, especially off those war contracts you netted in '04."

"Yeah. It was doing well. But we have shelved government contracts for now. We are doing a lot of R&D to explore better alternatives to tanks and rifles."

Harvey's eyes widened. "Hah. You are taking this cleaning up Gotham thing seriously, aren't you?"

"Well, pal, when a lightweight like you cleaned himself up and became a lawyer, I figured it was time I cleaned myself up too."

Harvey laughed. It was amusing when he laughed.

Harvey was a stocky, powerful man. He embodied Teddy Roosevelt's 'walk softly, but carry a big stick' mantra. However, when Harvey laughed, he always seemed like he was teetering near an invisible edge.

One bad day. That's what Bruce thought of, when he saw Harvey laugh.

That's what the Joker used to say, even back then. All it takes is one bad day to turn even the noblest of men into despicable monsters.

"I have to go, Bruce," Harvey said, rising up from his chair. "I have got an appointment at 12 pm."

"Alright. Let's walk to the subway."

They split the bill and set off for 50th St O'Neil Station. They were half a mile away, Bruce noted internally.

Bruce straightened his tie, briefly observing his reflection on a glass window. Slicked back, short hair. Sharp, hardened eyes. Gaunt cheeks that were slightly bruised.

His most telling feature, of course, was the half a centimeter of flesh missing from his left earlobe. He touched the wound, wincing slightly at the phantom pain.

Harvey noticed that. "How did that happen, Bruce?"

"Crossfit. Landed funny during a gymnastics routine."

"That must be one intense Crossfit regimen, then."

"Oh, you have no idea."

"Please, Bruce. I am smarter than I look," Harvey smirked. "Tell her I said hello, and to trim her nails the next time you two go wild in your penthouse."

"Hah! Try again. I don't bring just anyone to my penthouse."

"You say that as if your haunted Manor is any better."

"Haunted is right. I am still traumatized from the time I got lost in the caves below."

What Bruce said about the penthouse was technically true. Although it had a pleasing, art-deco aesthetic, Bruce used it strictly for business purposes. Sometimes, he entertained business clients when the occasion called for it.

Most of his time there, however, was spent in the company of Lucius Fox, poring over the suit and Batmobile designs, as well as every weapon and tool in Batman's arsenal.

Bruce still don't know how the others did it. Kent had a full-time job at the Planet, and Prince worked at the embassy. Sometimes, Bruce struggled to make it to board meetings on time. He left routine matters such as monitoring and evaluation checkups to his AIs and Fox a long time ago. He need all of his energy and attention for my real job.

Six hours on regular patrol. Four hours on average on cold cases. A weekend or two for every teamup.

Bruce turned 22 last May. But sometimes, he felt like a 35 year old. He barely had enough time for five hours of sleep in two weeks. Caffeine, meditation and focus kept him going when nothing else did.

That, and keeping Gotham's soul alive.

Bruce glanced up from my iPhone intermittently, taking note of the neighborhoods we passed by. O'Neil Street had done well for itself. The streets were a little cleaner, and the alleys were a little quieter. Only one pusher hung around PS 215.

Bruce grimaced when he saw the man's bruised and swollen lips. He remembered meeting him earlier. The man had fallen hard on the edge of the pavement while trying to run away from me. Bruce was busy handling his bigger pals.

Batman didn't let pushers get away with just a cut lip. As an urban legend, he had a reputation to maintain.

They reached the station before long. It was old, older than most stations in Downtown. Another item to pitch for our urban renovation department, Bruce noted.

Harvey paused before going through the turnstile, checking his phone for messages.

"Looks like we are going to have a guest, Bruce."

Bruce looked up from his phone, eyebrows raised questioningly.

"What can I say? She likes surprising people." Harvey said.

Bruce smirked. Instead of going downstairs to catch the L train, he and Harvey took a seat at a nearby bench.

"Anyone I know of?"

"Nah. We met while you were in Nepal."

"Right. Where's she interning? Finch and Feinstein?"

"She isn't in a law firm, Bruce," Harvey chuckled. "She's an art collector. A Dini graduate."

Bruce's smirk waned, and my eyes widened. Dini grads were a rare breed, even in Gotham. They were more likely to be found in Berlin or Barcelona. One of them designed the old Wayne Tower.

If Bruce didn't know just how good Harvey was at his job- and also at charming the pant-suits off his dates- he would have gone so far as to say that Harvey was hitting out of his league.

"What did she study in Dini? Architecture?"

Harvey nodded.

"That's great. What's her portfolio so far?"

"...I don't know. I mean, I didn't think to ask," Harvey added sheepishly.

"Some lawyer you are, Dumble-Dent."

"Pfft. You can ask her yourself when you meet her."

Bruce knew Harvey's types.

Harvey fell for two types of women. Confident career women who hardly had time for themselves, let alone committed relationships; and free-spirited liberal arts majors who lived in the moment. One wrote blog posts about fourth-wave feminism and the looming housing crisis; the other vlogged about her vacation in South East Asia.

"I know that she volunteers at the ASPCA and the AMoMA," Harvey offered. "Other than, she does some freelance on the side. Art, design, interior decorating, that kinda stuff."

Bruce nodded perceptively. So this was the second kind of woman, then.

Bruce and Harvey waited at the station for a few more minutes. Just as Bruce was about to get up, however, he noticed a woman walking towards them, hands buried in the pockets of her tan overcoat. She was smiling widely, but her eyes weren't telling the same story. And as she drew closer, Bruce knew why.

The same gait, the same poise and precision in her movements. She was the woman he ran into last night. And as she stood in front of them, her eyes darted to Bruce's wounded ear. Her smiled flickered, as did her gaze; she forcibly refocused her attention, turning towards Harvey.

"You didn't tell me you were with a friend, Harvey!"

"It's only Bruce Wayne, Selina. It's not like you don't know him or anything."

"He's told me about you, Bruce," Selina said, offering him her hand. "Hi, I am Selina Kyle."

"Pleased to meet you, Ms. Kyle. You seem familiar. Have we met each other before?"

"Maybe? I get around a lot, and I am sure you do as well."

"That I do. We will be sure to catch up later. Here," Bruce handed Selina a business card, "in case you feel like having a chat later."

"Now, now, Bruce, I saw her first," Harvey said, elbowing Bruce playfully. "But yeah, kidding aside, I am sure you two will hit it off right away."

Selina smirked, confidence flashing in her green eyes. "Yeah, I agree with Harvey too. I am sure we can discuss...art and architecture at a later date."

Bruce nodded. "Sure. Art, architecture...and other things."

Bruce waved the two off as they walked past the toll gate, ascending up the stairs towards the platform. This certainly made for an interesting turn of events.

* * *

2009

"This is where you go to brood, isn't it?"

Bruce turned expectantly towards the fire escape. Selina was sitting there, lazily cradling her whip, legs balanced dangerously across the edge of the next building.

Bruce approached her, hand trained on a batarang. He still didn't trust her as far as he could throw her.

"I didn't know if you would show. Thanks for making time out of your busy schedule."

"Well of course. I would always make time for you. Remember the first time we met?"

"The Ace Chemicals rooftop?"

"No, silly," Selina pushed off her mask, which lay limply on her shoulders. "Not as Batman and Catwoman. When we met. Harvey was there too."

Bruce's expression darkened. "You have some nerve bringing up his name. He went into a complete breakdown a few months afterwards, no thanks to you. You were supposed to be there, when he needed you."

Selina scowled, placing her mask back on. "I like you, Bruce. But I will be no man's martyr. And he wasn't exactly a great guy either, even before he was Two Face.

But anyways. Water under the bridge. Why did you ask me to come here?"

"I wanted to talk to you. Not as Bruce, or even as Batman. As equals."

"Fine. Talk away."

"Yes, I will. But firstly, let's decide on one thing. We have a truce. For the rest of the night."

Bruce unlocked his utility belt, taking it off his waist and throwing it a good distance away. Selina nodded, sliding her whip away.

"Truce."

Bruce walked towards the northern edge of the rooftop, before stopping by a gargoyle. "What do you see when you look at the city, Selina?"

Selina bit her lip, inhaling deeply. "I see the Titanic, sinking slowly into the Atlantic. I see broken promises. And opportunities for the brave and the bold."

Bruce sighed. "Don't you see something more?"

"Do you want me to say hope? Because I don't see it. If this was New York or hell even Metropolis, then sure, I would see hope. Hope left this place a long time ago, Bruce. Long before your parents died."

"Not everything's about my parents. I was thinking about the future. If this place even has a future. And I was thinking that, maybe, just maybe, there might be. If the right people start working for the right reasons."

Selina laughed softly before catching herself. She cleared her throat, mumbling an apology. "Maybe. Maybe in some other world things do get better for Gotham. But it isn't this world, Bruce. Things are getting more and more twisted each year. You get to rage your war against crime because, well, you can afford it. But is it going to do anything in the long run? How long can you keep punching goons and clowns?"

"As long as it takes."

"Ooh, there's that Wayne confidence. Didn't take long to rear it's head. I am serious, though. I have an escape plan too. I don't want to steal for a living for the rest of my life. Have you ever given a thought to when, if ever, you are going to stop being Batman?"

What was Bruce going to say? All he ever wanted to do was become what he was now: a relentless man driven towards a single purpose. What would he be, if his purpose was to be taken away from him?

"Selina, it's different. You see, Bruce Wayne is the face that everyone sees. But at the end of the day, I am only providing jobs and contributing to the economy. Charity, philanthropy, all of that works, until it doesn't. The Batman is where that comes into play. It's not just about cleaning up the streets. He works where Bruce Wayne can't. The Batman works, Selina. That's why I am here, standing and talking to you, and not dead in an alley."

Selina walked towards Bruce, head tinted, empathy twinkling in her eyes. "This is only going to end one way, isn't it? With you dead, on a rooftop like this somewhere. A part of you is still stuck in Crime Alley.

You can't live in a world that's so cruel as to take your parents away from you. And that has put you at war with yourself. There's the part of you that's trying to change the world, but there's also this part of you that's raging, like the inside of a storm. That part of you believes you can still save Gotham's soul. But it's a lie, Bruce. It's a beautiful lie, but a lie nonetheless."

Bruce turned his head away. "You are worse than my therapist."

"Well, I try," Selina said, tiptoeing around Bruce, a hand placed on his shoulder. "You want me to be a goody two shoes, don't you? Is that why you haven't really caught me all this time? Some misguided hope that I will use my skills to 'fight crime'?"

"Maybe. But it's more than that. You are an architect, Selina. You can build things. You could help build a better Gotham."

"Hah! You think too highly of me. Architecture bores me, Bruce. I studied it because it sounded fancy. I am really not into buildings as much as I am into people. And right now... there is one thing I want to really explore."

"Is that so?"

Selina stood on her toes, pushing Bruce's cowl away as she took off her own. She embraced him and kissed deeply, tongue swirling with tongue, each gauging the depths of each other's souls.

"Right," Selina said as she broke off from Bruce, picking her whip up from the other side of the rooftop. She carried Bruce's utility belt as she approached him. "I suppose I can finally see the elusive batcave?"

Bruce smirked, shaking his head. "No, I have a better place in mind."

* * *

For the first time since forever, Bruce Wayne woke up feeling content.

He drew on his boxers and trousers, peeking a look at the slumbering form of Selina. He still didn't trust her enough to bring her to the batcave, but then again, she could probably find it if she wanted to.

He had known long enough that he was smitten, but now as he looked at her, he felt a crushing vulnerability that he hadn't felt in a good while. The closest he had felt to it was when he was with Talia. That hadn't ended well at all.

When Bruce looked at her, he could see a future beyond being Batman. And that scared him, more than anything else in a long while.

He could manage the Penguin and Mr. Freeze. He could even manage the Joker on a bad day. But the idea that he could have a future with Selina boggled his mind.

He had no business being around someone like her. And she had no business hanging around someone like him. But when he put his and her broken forms together, he could see out of the corner of his mind's eye, something that looked like a whole being.

Bruce sighed. He didn't know how he was going to stop this from happening. And worst of all, he didn't even know if he wanted to.

"Hi," Selina said, stirring slightly. "You okay there, Batboy?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I am."

This was going to hurt him a lot more than it was going to hurt her.

"Yesterday was nice. But let's put a pin on it for a while, yeah? It doesn't look good, for me to be dating Harvey's ex fiancee."

Selina shot up, sitting straight. "Really? Is that the best excuse you have?"

"We need to think this through, is all I am saying."

Selina glowered before throwing a mean right hook at Bruce's jaw. Bruce sidestepped it, lightly grabbing Selina's arm. Selina jumped from the bed, twirling over Bruce's head in an arc, attempting a swirling kick as soon as she landed on her feet. It rattled Bruce's shins, reminding him once again that it's not a good idea to provoke a woman's scorn.

"Do we really have to do this, Selina?" Bruce said, his eyes trained on her slightest movements. "I am sure you understand what I meant."

"Don't patronize me. Of course I understand what you meant," Selina said, rolling towards the dining room, looking for silverware to use. "This is you running away at the slightest hint of intimacy. Is this really all you are?"

Bruce grimaced. He rushed at Selina, his movements fluid and airy, limbs moving at tandem as he struck at her neck and her back. "Do you really want to have this conversation?"

"Yes. I do."

"Then, once again, truce," Bruce said, testily offering a hand. He winced when Selina shook it, pressing a lot harder than she needed to.

"Let's take a seat, shall we?"

Selina nodded, seating opposite Bruce. Bruce wondered if he could actually make her back off. If not, then all bets are off.

"Selina, I don't know about you. But I am not built for this. For whatever we have, or might have in the future."

"Built for this? You aren't a machine, Bruce. You can't measure everything in your life like it's all made of bytes or teraflops or something."

Bruce disagreed with her vehemently on that point, but he wasn't going to let her know about that. Especially when the table knife was so dangerously close to her right hand.

"Look, let's say we get together. Then what? We 'fight crime' together? Doesn't that make us liabilities to each other?"

"We fight well enough, numb nuts. We can take whatever the city throws at us. Also I ain't buying this "I only fight well when I am alone" bullcrap. There's that boy in fishnets. And there's all of those weirdos in the Justice League too."

"Robin's different. As is the League. And all of that skirts what I am really talking about.

I see us dying together in an alley. Or being blown up by the Joker in our own home. Let's say we end up having a child. Or children, in plural. What world will we leave for our children? Shall we have them become Batman and Catwoman too?"

Selina's expressions darkened to such a degree that Bruce wouldn't be surprised if a singularity opened near their vicinity.

"You know what's really wrong with you? You have this idea that you can control what's happening in your life. Or in my life. Or hell, in Gotham. But you can't. You really can't. It's why, maybe, maybe, the Joker will win someday. Because in your own twisted way, you are still trying to control what he does, and what he can do, even when he's doped up in Arkham Asylum.

You have this idea that you have to win this war that you are waging. And then you have this other, hilarious idea that love will somehow make you weaker. That it will make me weaker.

You haven't really lived a life these last few years, have you? You have forgotten what actual love feels like. Maybe you prefer it this way. It helps you protect this idea you have about the Batman being a goddamned machine that never stops.

I don't know how you can stand beside Wonder Woman and Superman and not see hope for yourself, and for a future where you aren't alone. But what do I know? I am just a bored architect stealing baubles to keep things interesting."

Selina returned to the bedroom, picking up her clothes and handbag. She was still fuming as she redressed, smoothing out the creases in her skirt and blouse.

"You are right. We can't be doing this, not when you are hell-bent on being a manchild. Take some time off for yourself. Do whatever the hell you feel you need to do. But for your own sake, get better.

I do care for you, Bruce. And that will never change. If you are ever going for a dark night of the soul, then reach out. Call or text or send a messenger pigeon or whatever. I will be there on the other end. But you have got to help yourself, Bruce. If the Batman is always hurting like this, how can he really help anyone else?"

Bruce remained silent. He had heard what Selina had to say without saying a word in reply. Because he knew that she was right. And he didn't really know what to do about that.

"Stay safe, Bruce," Selina waved to him, eyes sprinkling with held back tears as she stepped into the elevator. "And get well."

Bruce rubbed his neck, signing deeply.

He wondered what Alfred would say if he heard about this. He would probably take Selina's side. And that's completely understandable.

But at the end of the day, the Batman's burden was only Bruce's alone. And he wasn't ready to share that with anyone else.

Even if that meant hurting himself in the process.

"I see that you have had an eventful morning, Master Bruce," Alfred's voice came streaming through the intercom. "Do you want me to send house cleaning?"

"Yeah, sure. I am leaving anyways."

"I trust that your sojourn with Ms. Kyle didn't go as you planned?"

"Yes, Alfred. Perceptive as always. Prep the computers, will you? I will be in the cave by 7."

"As you wish."

Bruce stared at the silhouette of the Gotham skyline as he buttoned up his shirt. He had known that the city would kill him one day, but it sure was coming up with creative new ways to hurt him.

He only hoped the Batman was stronger. He had to be stronger. Otherwise, what hope did Bruce have for a better future?

Of course, he had no hope at all. But he figured that if he kept lying to himself long enough, maybe that would change over time.

He paused when he saw a glint shining from near the bedside table. When he got nearer, he saw that it was an earring.

This was, perhaps, a keepsake of sorts. Or an invitation to continue their dialogue at another time. Whatever the case, it will have to wait.

Batman had a job to do. And since he didn't have anything else to do on a Sunday, he might as well start early.

Time to give Dick some extra combat lessons.


	3. Inferno

_2012_

Dick Grayson stretched his arms, before doing some light spot jogging. The surroundings weren't to his taste. They were spartan and threadbare, polished with a relentlessly modern sheen. There was a bedroom, and a study table, along with some weights and a bench. The rest of it remained empty, which was apt.

When he left Wayne Manor, he was barely a teen. He didn't know much, beyond what Bruce and Alfred had taught him, and what his parents had taught him before everything went to hell.

But now he was a college grad. He had a degree in Criminology, and interned with Buldhaven P.D. He had lead two Titan teams, and overseen Jason's training as he grew into his role as the new Robin. He was nineteen now. His life wasn't a blank slate: it was a thriving canvas, filled with all kinds of messy colors and different brush strokes, some messy, some measured.

Dick Grayson had outgrown his minimalist roots. And this threadbare room was a painful reminder of it.

"Master Grayson," Alfred said, smiling sardonically as he entered the room. "You haven't yet touched your breakfast, I see."

"You know me, Alfred. Always on the grind. Running scenarios. Thinking of new jokes. Carbs get in the way."

"It's only scrambled eggs. Not the same as the King's feast you would normally get on a Saturday."

Dick smiled. "The good old days. Do you miss them?"

Alfred chuckled. "I have lived a long and eventful life, master Grayson. My good old days are different from yours. But yes, there were many good things in the past. Even though some of us squandered it."

"By some of us, do you mean Bruce?"

Alfred lowered his head, his lips widening as he dimpled. "Perhaps. He has always loved you. He didn't always know how to express it in normal ways."

"Yeah. I know," Dick segued into shadow boxing, before transitioning seamlessly into Muay Thai. "He always meant well. But that's not the issue. It's the way he does things. One day, I just didn't agree with him and his principles. And there wasn't a point hanging around if I didn't believe in the Batman and his mission anymore."

"Ahh. That's disappointing," Alfred said, and he meant it too. "Still, I am glad you are here again, Master Grayson. These halls have been emptier without you."

Dick shrugged his shoulder, before running towards the wall and vaulting off it, catching the lever hanging from the ceiling. As he hung on it, the secret compartment in his room opened, revealing his armored costume.

"I like what you have done with the uniform," Alfred stated, inspecting the chest plate minutely. "Padding looks effective too."

"Yeah. Went for an old school Kevlar weave, with carbon fiber reinforcements near the ribs and shoulders. It's probably not as good as Bruce's current digs, but it holds its own."

Alfred glanced back at Dick, who was still holding the lever, swinging in 360 degree arcs. "I will leave the breakfast on your desk for thirty more minutes, Master Grayson. I pray that you finish it by then."

Dick smirked as he let go, twisting three times more before landing on his feet. "Sure. Thanks for dropping by, Alfred. It's been too long."

Dick picked up his breakfast bowl, scarfing down in quick, mouthful bites as he took a seat by his laptop. He opened his encrypted chat app, breezing through his chat threads with the rest of the team.

He wondered what was keeping her. She wasn't the kind to wait an ungodly amount of time before replying. Barbara Gordon was many things, but late wasn't one of them.

After a few more minutes, his laptop chimed, letting him know that he had just received a new message.

"Alright, you can come over."

"You don't have to tell me twice," he replied back.

Dick changed out of his workout clothes, donning a simple, understated grey jacket with an blue undershirt beneath. He paused before leaving the room, taking one last look at his uniform. It had been awhile since he had worn armor underneath his clothes. Bludhaven had its share of crime, but that's peanuts compared to the sheer insanity one experienced in Gotham.

Dick shook his head, grabbing his Escrima sticks and stashing them by his waist. He was paranoid, but he wasn't as paranoid as Bruce was. Not that he could blame the man for being what he was. Especially after what happened with Gordon and Barbara last month.

Times like these, Dick was glad he was on his own path. It put him firmly out of reach of the predatory darkness in Bruce's life. Like some Victorian monster it advanced towards Bruce, shrouding every aspect of his life with its immense shadow, until nothing remained but the darkness itself.

Dick wondered if Barbara thought the same.

* * *

"He's different now, Dick," Barbara said, wheeling closer to Dick. "In more ways than one. He spends days on cold cases. Rarely makes public appearances. He hasn't stepped foot in Wayne Enterprises since the last annual meeting."

Dick nodded, taking a seat by the small coffee table. "Doesn't it feel lonely up here? Like an owl nesting up in the mountains by herself?"

Barbara shook her head. "That's why I have you guys. So kind of you to drop by."

Dick laughed. There were fangs hidden in those words, and Barbara hadn't bothered concealing them from Dick's eyes. "What do you want me to say, Babs? That I felt just as responsible as Bruce did for what happened? Because I did. I should have convinced you to take some time off too, when I left Gotham. Maybe you needed to go somewhere far from here too, and see what life is like out there."

"If I wanted to see sunshine and rainbows, Dick, I would have hauled my ass off to California years ago. I was James Gordon's daughter long before I was Batgirl. I knew the risks long before I put on the spandex.'

"Right. How is the new arrangement working out for you so far?"

Barbara smiled, gesturing to the massive server stack in the next room, which extended all the way to the next floor. "The best surveillance digs you can find this side of Maryland. It's a remarkable feat of human engineering. And you know what's the funny part? Bruce is already planning on building something better by 2016."

"And what does this bad boy do?" Dick walked over to the main console. "Can it outthink the Riddler, for instance? Because we are going up against him tonight."

"The Riddler? Please. He's too old school. And he has gotten sloppy. This latest crime war he's waging, it's his way of seeking attention."

"Attention? From whom, the Joker or Batman?"

"From both, I think. The Joker, because he wants to prove that he can still hang around the big boys. The Batman, because, everyone worth his salt gets the Bat's attention. Without that, he's a nobody. A has-been."

"Well, kidnapping three dozen Gothamites is a fine way of catching Bruce's attention. What's he going to do with them, you think?"

"Nothing good. Nigma popped on our feeds three days ago. Mad Hatter and Scarecrow were with him. You can use your imagination as to what he's cooking up with those two."

"He's probably attacking Penguin in his old ship. Any tips about what we might encounter in there?"

"Other than his thugs? Expect a lot of traps. There's a reason Cobblepot has stuck to this place for so long. And that's not sentimentality."

Dick nodded. "Sounds like I came back to Gotham at the perfect time of the year."

Barbara smirked. "Not too busy with Ms. Firehead to visit us lowly mortals, eh?"

Dick groaned. "Who told you about that?"

"Gar. Raven. Victor. Basically your whole team."

"It's been two years, Babs," Dick said, massaging his elbow. "I just moved on."

"More like you ghosted me, Dick. And that wasn't nice. I get that you had issues with Bruce. That doesn't mean you stop talking to me, too."

Dick sighed. He knew a losing argument when he saw one. "I will get back to you about all this, right? You are right, I need to make it up to you."

"Damn right you do. Keep your head straight tonight, yeah? This might look routine, but Gotham's more dangerous now."

Dick grinned. "That's true, but then again, so's Batman. I mean have you seen how ripped he is?"

"You haven't seen anything until you have seen him in action, trust me."

* * *

 _Seven hours later_

Bruce took a deep breath, hands trained and raised, eyes fixed on the man charging at him. The man threw his fist in front, and Bruce weaved, grabbing him by the elbow and throwing him against a wall of Penguin's thugs. Another man rushed him from the side, brandishing a metal pipe. Bruce spun, his elbow crashing with shattering force against the man's ribs. He grabbed the man's neck, flipping him mid air before spin-kicking the man a good ten feet away.

They were in the main dinner hall, stuck in a free for all between Penguin's thugs and Riddler's forces. Scarecrow's fear toxin was pouring in through the vents, making everyone there less inhibited and less likely to hold back against their opponents.

Bruce was wearing a breathing mask, of course, as were Dick and Jason. Bruce was doing heavy duty, while the other two were searching for Riddler and his cohorts.

There was something maddeningly calm about wading through a sea of opponents in hand to hand combat. In combat, Bruce could let go of his reserves and use himself as a weapon, using all his years of training for a singular, effective purpose. He slowed down a few seconds when dealing with the Hatter-controlled victims, trying to pry away their hats (and other headgear) when they got too close. It was a slow, difficult process, made more complicated by the presence of Penguin's people.

Batman spotted Cobblepot high up in one of the balconies, a permanent scowl fixed on his blubbery features. "Call your men off, Cobblepot," he yelled. "I can handle the kidnapped hostages on my own!"

"I would rather not, Bats. They are helping you keep distracted, which is exactly what I need. I am offing Nigma the first chance I get tonight, and I am not in the mood for another one of your morality plays."

Bruce grunted. Of course, he had to do it the hard way.

"Besides, I have a surprise for both you and Nigma. And he's coming up right now."

Heavy footsteps sounded across the hall, getting closer with each passing second. Bruce grimaced, bracing himself. Bane burst through the main door, ploughing into five different Hatter-controlled hostages, before grabbing one of them, using her as a human bat against the rest of them.

"Bane, put that woman down," Bruce said. He was still fighting off Penguin's thugs, who were now closing in on him, emboldened by Bane's appearance.

"I think not, Batman. I will break her first, and then I will break you again, like a twig."

Bruce reached into his utility belt, grabbing multiple batarangs. "We will see about that."

* * *

"Dick, you need to fight your way to the control room," Barbara's voice streamed through Dick's comm link. "Hatter and Scarecrow are there, which means the Riddler isn't far away."

"You don't have to say that twice," Dick said. "Penguin's people are headed there too. Jason and I have got this."

Dick and Jason were rushing down the ship's hull, fighting off stragglers from Penguin's crew every now and then. It would be wrong of Dick to say that he wasn't enjoying this, but he was getting worried about Jason. He fought as though he was teetering on the edge of abandon, barely aware that the people he was fighting were, well, people.

"Careful, Jason. These are people too."

"Yeah, but they are also hardened criminals," Jason said, dodging a punch and driving his fist into his attacker's sternum. "If they are here- and punching us- then they deserve what's coming to them."

Dick grunted. He chalked Jason's bravado up to youthful exuberance. Bruce was more hands-off these days, probably because Dick had bristled so much under his watchful eye.

When they reached the boiler room, they found the area blanketed with a green, misty gas. The Hatter-hostages were busy taping four C4 explosives to the engines, monitored by Hatter, with Scarecrow standing guard by the doorway.

"You take Hatter, I will take Scarecrow," Dick said, charging his escrima sticks with electricity. He swung hard, hitting Scarecrow's temple. Scarecrow swayed, and then recovered, burying his syringe-tipped fingers deep into Dick's neck.

Dick's pulse quickened, his heart thumping louder and louder, obscene visions assailing his mind. His teeth gritted, he fought through the disorientation, ignoring the sight of Joker moving towards Barbara's prone form, or a Trigun-possessed Raven reigning supreme over the crumpled bodies of her teammates. He ran towards Scarecrow, leaping, his knees slamming into Scarecrow's chest like a boulder running over a tree.

"Where's Nigma, Crane?" Dick asked, his knees pinning Scarecrow to the ground.

"You will see him soon enough," Scarecrow hissed, struggling to break free. "Or the Bat will. I don't think you matter enough to warrant Nigma's attention."

Dick charged his sticks again before striking Scarecrow's neck, rendering him unconscious. "Tomayto, Tomahtoh. Doesn't matter either way."

By the time Dick turned his attention towards Jason, the Hatter was lying spread eagled on the floor, his nose busted and bloody. His hat had been ripped off, which meant that the kidnapped hostages were free from his control.

"You just armed these explosives right? That means you also know how to disarm them," Jason said, addressing one of the captives.

"Yeah," the man said, still disoriented from Hatter's mind control. "I work in GCPD's bomb disposal unit. Give me a second."

The man observed the bomb for a few seconds, and then sighed, shaking his head. "This is too advanced. It's locked with an encrypted cipher."

"Nigma's handiwork, most likely," Dick said, grimacing. He turned on his comms link, connecting with Barbara. "Oracle, we need to evacuate the ship immediately."

Barbara sighed. "On it."

Dick shepherded the hostages out of the boiler room, before lifting the unconscious Scarecrow up on his shoulders. "Jason, you carry the Hatter out of here, yeah?"

Jason groaned, but complied. "I better get more combat lessons out of this, Grayson."

"Let's focus on surviving Titanic 2 out here, and we will talk about it."

* * *

Bruce leapt backwards, lining the floor beneath him with exploding gel. As Bane charged at him, Bruce detonated the gel, and the floor gave way, sinking Bane with it. "That should keep him busy for a while."

"That's quite clever of you, caped crusader. But tell me, what will you do about this?"

Bruce turned around, spotting Riddler in the balcony, standing over an unconscious Penguin. He was holding a detonator in his hand; he pressed the button without a second thought.

Explosions sounded from deep within the hull, and the ship shook, its floors shaking as water flooded in, pushing the ship deeper into the water.

Gritting his teeth, Bruce fired his batclaw at the balcony, zipping straight up to the Riddler, who simply stood by, a manic gleam shining in his eyes. "Why do this, Nigma? This isn't your MO."

"Well, my old riddles weren't cutting it anymore, were they? You were bored, and the clown had all your attention. I have your attention now, don't I? Thanks to this bit of brilliant advertising."

Bruce stared at Nigma, his mind warring, egging to retaliate, to punch the living daylights out of the frail genius. However, the more he looked at Riddler, the more he realized that there was something off about him: his skin looked wrinkled and worn down, and his hair was light, thinning near the forehead.

"You are sick, aren't you?"

"Yes, yes. Six months left to live, they said. So I went to the Bahamas, then to Amsterdam and then came back to Gotham to tick off the top of my bucket list. Aren't we having fun?"

Bruce grunted in response, clocking Nigma in the jaw with enough force to knock three of his teeth out. As he handcuffed the Riddler and Penguin, he attached the batclaw to their feet, shooting their bodies through the skyroof and onto the main hull.

The ship was tilted to the right, turning more ever so slightly as water continued to pour in. "This is Batman calling JLA dispatch," Bruce talked into his comms link. "I need some hands on deck here, we have a sinking ship with at least a hundred people on board."

Anxiety spread from his chest to head; he took deep breaths as he waited for Dick and Jason to resurface. Thankfully, they made it through to the main deck after a few minutes.

By the time Superman, Green Lantern and the Flash arrived on the scene, Bruce was already at the pier, waiting for the GCPD to pick up the Riddler and his cohorts.

A pang of sadness shot through Bruce's mind as he saw the ship tilt further to the right, sinking deeper into the water. The ship was older than he was, he realized. It was called the Fair Wind, when it was still in commission. It had carried immigrants from Europe to the States in the twenties and thirties. Under Penguin's watchful eye, it had been remarkably well preserved. But now it too was lost to the ravages of time.

"Can't believe the Riddler of all people had the balls to pull off something like this," Jason said, whistling lowly. "They will probably throw a rad welcome back party for him at Arkham."

"But that's the thing, Jason," Dick said. "The Riddler was never a fan of doing something...as in your face as this. I guess Barbara was right. Gotham has changed a lot since I have been gone."

Bruce nodded. Yes, Gotham was changing, but it wasn't changing for the better.

* * *

 _Three hours later_

Bruce was standing by his usual spot on the GCPD roof, besides the Bat Signal. Gordon was late, which was unusual.

By the time he came, Bruce was already monitoring three in-progress crimes: one mugging and two car jackings. He notified Nightwing and Robin about them, knowing that they had enough firepower between them to take care of the thugs.

"How's Riddler holding up?" Bruce asked, as Gordon lit up a cigarette.

"He's seen better days, that's for sure. He was hoping that you would show up in the interrogation room."

"Right. I might swing by his cell later. My associates have already started destabilizing his criminal networks. It will take a few months, but it will be done. By the time we are done, it will be like the Riddler never existed."

Gordon stared at Bruce. "You are still on the warpath, eh?"

"Gotham is going down a dark path. These last five years, I was facing down a menagerie of deranged individuals. In a way, they represented the city's dark subconscious, like dark dreams spilling over from a sleepless mind to reality. That's changed this year. The darkness has risen to the surface, bubbling like steam from a geyser.

Are you holding Cobblepot for the night?"

"Yeah," Gordon replied. "We have to let him go though. He did own that ship, and all those thugs were under his gainful employment too. He's pissed. Probably another headache for you a few months down the line."

"Maybe. But I am working to change that. My...benefactor has worked with the state on surveillance networks. He's currently developing new tech that can build comprehensive criminal profiles. If implemented right, it will, in essence, cripple the likes of Cobblepot and Dent."

"Even the Joker?"

Bruce nodded. "That's the plan."

Gordon sighed. "I don't blame you, you know."

"Blame me for what, Gordon?"

"For what the Joker did to me and Barbara."

Bruce took a deep breath. He remembered how Barbara had been, in those first few hours after she had been shot. Frightened, like a deer maimed by a mountain lion, left for dead.

"It happened on my watch, Jim."

"And on my watch too. I know you feel especially responsible for Barbara. But she's her own woman. She did some good work, with you and the kids."

Bruce's eyes narrowed, and his jaws clacked, hardening ever so slightly. "How long have you known about this?"

"Two years. I saw her leaving for a patrol one night. It wasn't hard, putting two and two together.

I don't regret her actions. Don't you dare regret it, either."

Bruce nodded. He had never intended for things to get this far. To bring so many bodies into this war, to put others at risk. But this was a war with no end. And the casualties were piling up.

"Well, I am going to go now," Gordon said, putting out his cigarette. "Night."

Bruce nodded, running towards the roof's edge, leaping as he spread his cape. He glided down to a lower roof, his scanner already alight with news of crimes in-progress.

Two blocks and three minutes later, Bruce swooped down, landing hard on the roof of a car, attaching a small EMP charge to the roof. The charge blew, disrupting the engine, causing the car to skid to a halt. Two men stepped out of it, brandishing guns and knives.

"There's an easy way, and a hard way," Bruce said, landing on the street, his arms raised and ready. "Choose wisely."

The man closer to him clicked the safety back, and Bruce leapt, throwing a batarang right through his hand. The man screamed, dropping the gun; the other man turned tail and ran. Bruce threw another batarang at the man's feet; it landed right on his ankle, embedding deep into his tendons. The man tripped, and as he fell, the batarang lodged even deeper into his flesh.

Dick was right, Bruce realized. The war had changed him too, and perhaps, it wasn't for the better. Perhaps this is who he needed to be, to face the horrors and monsters of the future.

And he was okay with that. Better him and his soul, then the lives of his people.

He only hoped that such sacrifices were not in vain.


End file.
